Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
I frowned down at the email on my screen. The subject line said PROOF ATTACHED, and the sender was a T. Fisher. I sucked in a breath and promptly started coughing. T. Fisher, as in Terrance?
I clicked the attachment and, sure enough, found it was a slide deck showing images of a storyboard—the exact same one Layla had shown Thatcher and me and had claimed as her own.
Even in my feeble state, I could tell this was the original. Not only had the file been created nearly eight months ago, but there were barely decipherable speaker notes attached, too, showing the deck had been created for use as part of a larger presentation.
Explain increased ROI for managing SM in-house, one read.
Quantifiable data here!!!! said another.
A third note was a list called Suggested strategies prior to Elustre SM launch: Send samples (jackets?) with catchy slogan (TBD?) to celebrity influencers for indirect social media exposure? Select targets who love athleisure gear, post workout selfies, get paparazzi attention. Popular social media talent managers: Karen Finegold @ Waterworth, Jon Cordero @ Rumblefeld. Customize in-house or @ Apparel Designs on W31st.
I stared at the note, and my brainpower was so low I had to read it several times before I realized why it all seemed so familiar. This was the Nova incident, all laid out in black and white, right down to the suggestion of Rumblefeld Talent Management—Nova Davidson’s PR agency—as a contact. Layla had been right—someone at PennCo had planned the whole fucking thing.
I pushed the laptop away like it was suddenly too hot to hold and tried to remember my conversation with Nataly, which felt like it had happened a million years ago. Hadn’t she said Terrance was pissed off about Layla shutting down his ideas? Could he have instigated the Nova thing as some kind of revenge against PennCo, stealing the shirt before he left, printing it with that “Sponsor of Your New Year’s Resolutions” slogan—and sending it off as a final fuck you?
I climbed back under the covers so I could shiver and think.
As vengeance schemes went, it was pretty flawed. After all, if Nova had been caught by the paparazzi on a New Year’s Day run around the park, the stunt with the shirt might have resulted in good press for PennCo. Of course, anyone who followed her on social media knew how unlikely that was. Nova was too busy stirring up internet feuds with other influencers to go for a jog. Still, who could have predicted something as attention-grabbing as a car accident?
And why would Terrance have agreed to help me if he’d been the one behind it?
So… what if it hadn’t been a vengeance scheme at all? What if it had been an attempt to score good publicity for PennCo… executed by someone who didn’t know shit about social media influencers and had no idea what they might be unleashing? What if Layla had done it?
A lot of it still didn’t make sense, of course, and I didn’t think that was my flu talking. Why would Layla launch a full-out manhunt for the culprit if she’d done it herself? Was it simply to throw suspicion onto others—like, say, me? Or—ugh, I shot up in bed as the idea hit me—was it to give herself the opportunity to make it all right with the whistle-stop bus tour, which would also give her a chance to throw herself into Thatcher’s bed?
Heat suffused my body, and I couldn’t say whether it came from my actual fever or possessive rage at the thought of her using Thatcher like that. And there was no doubt in my mind that she would have. Thatcher might be a good man who chose to give her the benefit of the doubt, but I saw Layla for the evil mastermind she was.
One thing I knew for sure, though, was that Layla “fetch me a coffee, would you, Reagan?” James might have masterminded the plot, but there was no way she’d done the legwork.
After waiting a minute for the dizziness to pass, I called Alena, Layla’s assistant.
“Reagan! Hey, early bird. Nataly and I were just talking about you yesterday ’cause we’re hitting up your favorite Thai place for lunch today, and—oh, wait! You’re probably calling about the event today, aren’t you? Did you get the marketing stuff I sent? Should be at the hotel reception counter.”
“I got it, thanks. You’re the best,” I croaked. “Sorry for calling so early.”
“Oh, nooo. You’re sick! You poor thing. How can I help?”
Layla didn’t deserve Alena.
“Nothing to do with work,” I lied. “I actually need your help with a personal thing. See, my mom wants to have some ball caps and apparel printed for this fundraiser thing my dad’s doing, and she put me in charge, but I have no idea where to get that done in the city—” I broke off with a cough.